


stay, stay (help me stay me)

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [119]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Can you blame him, M/M, but honestly can you blame him, herms loves newt's freckles, newt's not doing okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21566875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: In the wake of the Precursors, Newt grows increasingly detached from himself. Hermann does tries his best to help.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: newmann one-shots [119]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286762
Comments: 1
Kudos: 43





	stay, stay (help me stay me)

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Okay so I had a devastating headcanon and based on your previous reactions to things I think you might love it. Maybe even a prompt? Newt has gotten used to thinking of it as the body or the precursor's body. Hermann tries to help."

The breath escapes; one, two, three, and Newt’s eyes drift over, focusing on the empty space across the room; the hairline cracks fanning out, web-like, on the wall. His skin is—warm, maybe? Or so cold it feels like it. He’s wearing short sleeves; the room is probably air-conditioned.

“Newton.”

He blinks; slowly, and has to think about it; foot still on the floor, and his hands locked neatly in his lap. The name seems disconnected from him. Still, he looks up; meets the gaze; Hermann’s.

He glances down; finds the warmth is from Hermann’s hand on his shoulder; oh. “Yeah?” he asks, and clears his throat when it comes out sounding dry; _inhuman,_ the mere thought of it bringing bile up, and he thinks he can see thousands of eyes—

“Are you alright?” Hermann’s worrying his lip; that unconscious habit he never did manage to break himself of, and there’s… _worry,_ there, in his gaze. His hand is heavy, the weight like an anchor; maybe.

“…I…” he pauses; realises, after a moment, that the words aren’t going to be forced from him without his consent. “Breathing,” he says, finally; the truth, and then realises belatedly that that probably sounds awful; probably sounds like exactly what it is: that he doesn’t know how the fuck he’s meant to be, anymore.

Hermann’s eyes widen. “Oh,” he says, softly; as if he knows what has just passed Newt’s mind, “you’re not used to it, are you.”

A statement more than a question; fair enough; it’s true. He shrugs, neutral. “It’s the Precursors’ body, really.”

Hermann’s jaw tightens. He can’t see it, in true, but he can feel the phantom of it; the displeasure—dissatisfaction; wonders why. Remembers, in sudden, that it’s probably understandable.

He doesn’t understand it.

“It’s not,” Hermann counters; can’t have been more than a moment since Newt spoke but it feels a lifetime ago; longer, maybe, than that. His hand’s still on Newt’s arm.

“No,” Newt says; after a moment, slow. “No, you’re…you’re right. It’s not the _Precursors’_ body. It’s… _the_ body.” _At best,_ he doesn’t add; because, really, most times? It _feels_ like the Precursors’ body; like their invisible collar is still there, biting into his neck at the slightest hint of rebellion.

Still; Hermann is frowning. Why? Newt frowns, too; the thought of it dancing on the tip of his tongue, unspoken. “It’s not,” Hermann says, softly; and suddenly his eyes are so soft; so gentle, the shadows of his eyelashes falling on his face; long and dark, and he raises his hand to Newt’s face; cups his cheek.

Newt swallows; breathes, one _two_ and he says, sharp, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Hermann draws back. “Apologies.”

Still, though, it hangs between them; heavy, and then Newt's— _heavy,_ and his cheeks are wet; the question is, there, on the tip of _Hermann’s_ tongue, now; and perhaps that is fair; perhaps that is a question that needs to be spoken.

“I’m… _crying,_ ” he says; suddenly, as he realises it; and then he’s leaning into and against Hermann, the points of contact burning hot; wrist brushing against Hermann’s exposed one.

“What happened?” Hermann says; quietly. “Back there?”

 _Back when they had you,_ he means; _back when they were you._

“Nothing,” Newt whispers. “Nothing, and…everything.” And that is—that is the truth, in honest, because nothing happened and everything happened _to_ him. “I’m not me, anymore. I’m not…” he pulls his hand away; sits up, sudden, gestures widely. “ _Here._ ”

His cheeks are wet; still, and so are Hermann’s; he can see them glisten with the light.

And then, a moment later, Hermann’s hands return; reach out to find Newt’s. “They are not here,” he says; soft; gentle. “They are gone, Newton.”

“But so am I.”

“You’re _not._ ” The bite of it startles him; leaves him blinking slowly. “You’re not,” Hermann says; again, and he turns Newt‘a hands over; rubs the inside of his wrist with his thumb. “This is you, Newton. Every cell, every hair follicle, every single inch of skin and bone is yours—it’s written into your DNA. You know this; you’re a biologist.”

Newt startled; sudden; laughs, unintentional. Hermann’s expression doesn’t change. “They couldn’t take that away from you,” he says, fiercely, “they tried so _damn_ hard, but they couldn’t take that away from you.”

That’s true; it’s true; coded into Newt’s very genes, incorruptible. Inimitable. There’s something very comforting about that thought, that invisible individuality.

Hermann’s hands, gentle, rise again; slowly, giving Newt the option to push them away if he wants; if he _needs to,_ still, and that is—that is _something._ Newt doesn’t stop him; lets the touch alight on his cheeks again.

Hermann’s fingers trace up his cheeks; over the bridge of his nose. “These,” he says, “are your freckles, Newton Geiszler. They are yours; not the Precursors’. And these,” he brushes his fingers over Newt’s eyelids, “these are your eyes, not the Precursors’. They are yours, Newton, and they are lovely.”

“Stop _it,_ ” Newt says, but there’s a smile ticking the corners of his lips; tone almost playful, if he even knows what that means anymore. “You’re horrible, oh my _god._ ”

Hermann smiles back; hands falling to cup his jaw, and he leans forward; the heat radiating from him; presses a kiss to the bridge of Newt’s nose; chaste. “This is your nose,” he says.

“…not the Precursors’,” Newt finishes; with a slight giggle.

“Exactly,” Hermann nods. “Every bit of you is _you,_ Newton; none of it is the Precursors’.” His skin is rough; Newt wonders, suddenly, what he’s been doing the last ten years to give him callouses where he never had them; remembers that Hermann has been doing his job and Newt’s both for the last ten years.

Hermann’s smile is warm; soft, and gentle. His touch is just as much; comforting, and grounding, both, and this is—

 _I don’t deserve this,_ Newt thinks; suddenly, the thought cold, and then, with determination: _I want to. I’ll work to deserve it._

He smiles back; weakly, but it’s _there._

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
